Confectionately Yours #1: Save the Cupcake!

by Lisa Papademetriou

  I will not throw up.

  I will not —

  And then, out of the blue, Ms. Markerson announces, “So I think we should cast a vote.”

  Someone starts to make a motion, but my mother interrupts. “Hold on,” Mom says. “I think some students have something they want to say.”

  And in the next moment, I feel everyone staring at me.

  Meghan thrusts her note cards into my hand, and I can taste the burrito. I swallow hard as I stand on my wobbly feet. “Uh, yeah,” I say as I look down at the cards. “Um, we wanted to …” But my vision blurs, my head feels light. Meghan’s notes aren’t making any sense to me.

  I glance at Meghan, who is smiling at me in a way that is supposed to seem encouraging, but actually comes off as a grimace of terror. The words on the note card swim together. I have the same horrible feeling I had in Mrs. Hochstetter’s class ….

  “Is this really necessary?” asks a bald man at the end of the table. “It doesn’t seem that there’s any need to discuss cupcakes. This is a health and public safety issue.”

  “I think we should hear the students out.” My mother’s voice is calm, strong. Her office voice.

  But the bald man just huffs. “Listening to children who want to eat sugar just seems a little juvenile.”

  The PTO laughs, but the word juvenile splashes over me like a bucket of ice water. My mind clears. I straighten up. “No,” I hear myself say. “It isn’t juvenile. Not at all.”

  Someone chuckles, and I plant my feet firmly on the ground. I feel everyone staring, and stutter, “Th-the sports teams —”

  “Would you speak up a little?” A sharp-featured woman leans forward in her chair.

  I lick my dry lips and start again. “The sports teams use bake sales to raise money for uniforms —”

  “They can hold a walkathon.” The bald man waves his hand dismissively, and others around the table nod. “That way they would be encouraging a healthy lifestyle.”

  “But our sports teams are already encouraging exercise. Besides, a walkathon and a bake sale aren’t the same thing,” I counter. “At a bake sale, you’re making something and selling it. At a walkathon, you’re just asking for donations.” I put the cards on my chair. “But that doesn’t matter. What we’re talking about here is individual liberty, and the ability to make choices. The students at Adams Middle School aren’t small children, or people who need protection from poor nutrition. We’re old enough to decide what we eat, and how much. We pack our own lunches. We choose what we want from the cafeteria. You have to decide how much you can trust us. Can you trust us enough to let us eat a cupcake once in a while?”

  The room is quiet as I take the cards from my chair and sit down. I look over at Meghan, who is beaming at me like a proud mother. She takes my hand and squeezes the life out of it. I feel light-headed and shaky, but my mom smiles at me from across the room, and I realize that the two people I care about think I did a good job. That’s something.

  “Thank you.” Meghan’s mother nods at me and smiles at me with her big teeth. “Now, I’d like to put the matter before the PTO. I have here” — she holds up a piece of paper — “a proposal to ban the sale and distribution of sweet treats at Adams Middle School.”

  “So — the students could still bring a treat in their lunch?” This is from the sharp-featured woman.

  Ms. Markerson hesitates. “Yes,” she says. “We simply won’t allow treats to be handed out to the whole class or sold. All those in favor?” And before I know what’s happening, five members of the PTO put up their hands and say aye.

  Ms. Markerson asks for those against, and my mother and two others say nay, and just like that, the vote is over and we’ve lost.

  We have to sit through a bunch of other blah blah blah before Meghan’s mother finally wraps up the meeting and the PTO files out. Meghan’s mother pauses as she passes us, but in the end, she doesn’t say anything. She just walks out.

  I keep my eyes on my lap. I can’t look up. I feel the heaviness of my failure sticking to me, like rain weighting my clothes.

  Meghan has been holding my hand this whole time, but she finally drops it. “Well … that was horrible,” she says, her voice almost a whisper.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “You’re sorry?”

  I nod, then feel her touch my sleeve.

  “Hayley, you were great. Great! Your speech was way better than what I had written. You were perfect! This is crazy!”

  I look over at her, and see the earnestness in her face. Her jaw is set, her face pale. “My mother had the votes before we even came in here.”

  “She did?”

  “I could tell.” Meghan’s voice trembles a little, and I realize how powerless she feels.

  “It’s okay.”

  “You were great,” she says again. “Better than I could have done it.”

  This isn’t true, but it seems lame to disagree with her. I wish I knew what to say to her about her mother. I wish I understood why her mother needed to make a big deal out of cupcakes — why she couldn’t just let Meghan deal with the situation her own way. “Sometimes people make no sense.” It’s the only thing I can think of.

  Meghan looks at me. “They always make sense,” she says. “It’s just that sometimes they aren’t who you thought they were.”

  I think about my dad, and about Artie. I think about Marco, too. None of them are the people I thought they were. Maybe they’ve changed and maybe they haven’t. But now that I see them from a new angle, I guess I can’t go back to seeing them the way I did before.

  My mother pokes her head in through the door, giving us a sympathetic smile. “Girls, can I interest you in a cupcake?”

  “Is it gluten free?” Meghan asks.

  “We still have a couple of those left,” I say, but Meghan shakes her head.

  “I was actually just kidding. I have to go home.” Meghan’s voice is like lead. She casts a glance toward the hallway, where her mother is chatting with a couple of PTO members. We walk to the door and Meghan slowly goes over and stands beside her mother, as quiet as a shadow.

  I feel shaky, almost as if I’ve discovered a secret about Meghan, as I follow Mom downstairs. We walk through the eerily quiet school and out into the night.

  “You were wonderful,” Mom says. I can hear our footsteps as we head to the car. Above, the stars are dim, tiny points compared to the stars I saw at Alex’s party. I know it’s because of the light pollution — we’re closer to town, with all of its streetlamps and houses and large-screen TVs — but it feels like the world is just dimmer.

  “Not good enough.”

  “I think you made a few people in there think. And you did what was important to you.”

  I know that this is supposed to be a pep talk, but it isn’t really having much of an effect. “I guess.”

  We come to the car, which chirps as Mom unlocks it. We slip into our seats and click our seat belts closed, but Mom doesn’t put her key in the ignition. Instead, she says, “You were really brave, Hayley.”

  We are both staring straight ahead, through the windshield and into the dark night. “Thanks, Mom.”

  “You made me want to be brave.”

  “You are brave, Mom.”

  We look at each other a moment. Her features are indistinct in the dim light. I feel like I am about to cry. Why? Because of the cupcakes? Because I let Meghan down?

  “Hayley, what if I told you that I didn’t want to work at Greater Valley Family Practice?”

  “What?”

  Mom sighs. “I don’t want that job, Hayley. I think … I think I want to work at the café. Help Mother run it.”

  I’m quiet for a moment, taking this in.

  “Would you think I was crazy?” Mom asks.

  “No. I’d think you were sane.”

  “Really?”

  I smile. It’s funny to hear Mom treating me like I’m the adult, and I think she realizes it at the same time I do, because
she laughs.

  “You have to help Gran with the café,” I say. “You’re so good at it.”

  Mom holds out her arms, and I lean in for a hug. Mom is soft and the very best hug-giver in the world. “I’m so proud of you, honey,” she says.

  “Same here.”

  We drive home in comfortable silence, both lost in our thoughts, and Mom pulls into a parking spot halfway up the street from the Tea Room.

  “What’s going on?” Mom asks, and I see as soon as she does that two police officers are standing outside the door of the café. A face appears in the window, and a moment later, Chloe bounds out through the door. “Thank goodness you’re here! We need your help!”

  Mom and I both rush over. “What’s wrong?” Mom asks, and I can tell from her voice that her heart is pounding as fast as mine.

  “Wrong?” Chloe looks at her, then shakes her head. “Mom! The place is packed!”

  And then we see that the police officers are simply standing in the line, waiting to be served. The Tea Room is jammed — every table is taken. The air is alive with noise — people chatting, china clinking, and a piano playing.

  “Rupert has been at it for half an hour,” Chloe says over her shoulder as we follow her inside.

  Mom and I hurry to wash our hands and put on aprons. Gran is serving at the counter, beaming at the young police officers. When I look around, I recognize several faces from school. Even Marco is here. He notices me and gives a half wave, then turns to his friends.

  I wave back. “What’s going on?” I ask Chloe.

  “No clue,” my sister says. “I’ll bus the tables, you ring the register. Gran is busy charming the customers.”

  Mom is already brewing a fresh pot of coffee, so I follow orders and take the register. I ring up five orders and the next person is Kyle, who’s standing with three of his friends. “Hey, Kyle,” I say. “It’s Hayley,” I add, since it’s loud and I’m not sure he can hear me very well.

  “I figured,” Kyle says with a grin. “What’s up? Sounds pretty crowded.”

  “Yeah, like, half the school is here.”

  “I guess everyone liked that cupcake giveaway,” Kyle says, and the words crash over me suddenly.

  “Oh! The cupcake giveaway.” I’d forgotten about it. Suddenly, Marco being here means something to me. He’s supporting my cupcake fight. And so are the other kids. I feel a rush of gratitude, but I can’t help noticing who isn’t here: Artie.

  “How did that work out, by the way? The petition, I mean.”

  “We lost.”

  “Too bad. You fought the good fight, Hayley.”

  “Thanks.”

  “So — what’s the cupcake du jour?”

  “It’s lemon with white-chocolate frosting,” I say.

  “Sounds great. What are you calling it?”

  I think about it for a moment. “It’s a Good Fight cupcake,” I decide on the spot.

  Kyle smiles at me. “Don’t you owe me one?” he says.

  “Oh! Right. I forgot.” I place one on a plate and hand it over. “On the house.”

  “I was just kidding, Hayley. I’ll pay for it.” He reaches into his pocket.

  “Forget it, Kyle.”

  “You sure?” His smile is radiant.

  “Absolutely.”

  “And that, Hayley Hicks, is why you are the coolest girl at Adams.”

  I blush a little, but decide to let the compliment sink in. The coolest girl at Adams?

  Well, who am I to disagree?

  Just like everything, I guess it just depends on the angle from which you see it.

  I would like to gratefully acknowledge the help of my sister, Zoë Papademetriou, who created the recipes in this book. I would also like to thank my editor Anamika Bhatnagar for her insight and input, my agent Rosemary Stimola for her unwavering enthusiasm, my husband for his willingness to listen to all of my thoughts and ideas, and my mother for her relentless support.

  Looking for second helpings of the Confectionately Yours series? Don’t miss the next delicious installment!

  Turn the page for a special sneak peek!

  I’m standing at the front of the cafeteria, covered in lasagna. A noodle clings to my shirt for a moment, then drops onto my shoes with a tomato-sauce splat.

  Why did I have to get lasagna? I wonder. Why didn’t I get the burger? But it wouldn’t have mattered. I’m also covered in chocolate milk.

  “Oops,” Artie says. Then she giggles. “Sorry.”

  “OMG!” Chang lets out a laugh and the two of them walk away.

  She didn’t do it on purpose, I tell myself as I watch my ex–best friend cross the cafeteria to sit with her new crowd. I really do believe that Artie didn’t mean to cover me in lasagna. She’d been chatting with Chang, and neither one of them had been watching where they were going. I’d just gotten my drink. I turned around with my tray, and Artie slammed into me. The tray knocked up against my body, splattering my lunch against my shirt.

  I guess I should be grateful that it wasn’t soup.

  So, no, Artie didn’t do it on purpose — but did she really have to laugh?

  Artie leans over and says something to Kelley, who is sitting beneath a giant paper jack-o’-lantern. It’s Halloween, but nobody’s dressed up. Kelley tucks her blond hair behind her ear and casually looks over at me, and then all three girls crack up again. I feel like I’ve been sliced open. I wonder if the whole cafeteria can see inside my rib cage, where my heart is beating.

  I tighten my grip on the orange plastic tray and watch Chang, but she doesn’t even glance my way. She has her hand up to the side of her face and she’s looking at Artie and laughing.

  Artie picks up her lemonade and takes a sip. She looks out into the crowded cafeteria as if she’s forgotten me already.

  The clink and hum of other students talking and eating surrounds me as everyone else in the cafeteria carries on with their normal lives.

  Last year, we learned that scientists found this woolly mammoth frozen solid in a block of ice. They think the Ice Age may have come on really fast. That’s like what’s happened to me. Artie used to be my friend. My best friend. And then every thing changed.

  I turn and walk away. As I head toward the door, I dimly register my other ex–best friend, Marco, sitting with his soccer buddies. There’s another mystery: He used to be almost a brother to me. Now he thinks we shouldn’t hang out as much.

  I don’t break my stride as I drop my heavy tray on a nearby table, abandoning my ruined lunch, and push through the double doors. I’m not hungry anymore.

  I just want to be alone.

  Technically, we aren’t supposed to leave the cafeteria during lunch period, but lots of kids do. I walk over to the playing field nearby and sit down in the stands.

  Overhead, the sky is a heart-shredding shade of gray. I think about how Artie looked right through me in the cafeteria, and the tears start to flow. I’m crying and crying and my face is wet, and the tears are trickling down my neck and I can’t stop crying. I’m trying to be quiet, but I hear someone sit down next to me and I can tell without looking up that it’s Marco. I wipe my face, even though he’s just staring straight ahead.

  “How can she act like that?” I whisper finally.

  “I don’t know.” His eyes flick to mine, then away. He looks like maybe he wants to run, but he stays put beside me.

  I shake my head, thinking that I should try to stop crying, or at least stop talking, but I feel my face twisting, and I can’t stop the words. “It’s like I’m nothing, like I’m worse than something she scraped off her shoe. We were friends.” I can hardly hear my own words now, because the tears are choking me.

  He turns to look at me, and he looks so sad, and so sorry that I feel like another little piece of my heart has been ripped open. “Do you want me to talk to her?” Marco asks.

  I laugh a little — a messy laugh, half snort, half snot. “What would you say?”

  “I’d say, ‘Stop messing
with Hayley.’ ”

  “That’s not really talking, Marco.”

  He looks away. “Yeah. I can’t think of anything better.”

  “Me, neither.”

  He leans toward me then, just a little, until our shoulders are touching. We sit together, just breathing. My arm is warm where it meets his, and I start crying again. Quieter this time. Not as messy. Just tears. I take a deep breath, and my chest feels clean.

  The world shifts just a fraction, and even though everything’s the same as it was five seconds ago, I feel a little better.

  “I thought you didn’t want to hang out together as much,” I say. Why did you say that? I wonder. Things are halfway normal right now — be quiet!

  But Marco just sighs.

  “Ohmigosh, what happened?”

  Meghan Markerson walks up to us with her eyes and mouth round. She’s wearing a purple tunic and yellow leggings, and with her newly dyed green bangs and naturally orange hair, she looks kind of like a cartoon character. I don’t think it’s a costume, though. This is just a normal Meghan outfit.

  Artie accidentally spilled lasagna on me,” I say.

  “Where is she?” Meghan asks, looking around.

  “Inside,” Marco explains.

  “What?” Meghan screeches. “Is she getting you some towels, or something?” She plants a hand on her hip, like, She’d better be getting Hayley some towels.

  Marco looks at me, and I bite my lip.

  “She’s having lunch,” Marco says.

  Meghan looks at him for a long moment. Then her eyes narrow, and her nostrils flare.

  For some reason, this makes me happy. I’ve been busy dissolving into tears, but Meghan looks like she wants to go inside and rip Artie’s face off. I don’t even know Meghan that well, but she’s clearly outraged on my behalf. I feel better already.

  “Calming breath,” Meghan says to herself, inhaling deeply. She closes her eyes, then waves her hands down the length of her body and shakes them out.